Текст и перевод песни Julio Sosa - Enfundá la Mandolina

Enfundá la Mandolina

Sosegate que ya es tiempo de archivar tus ilusiones,
Dedicate a balconearla que pa′ vos ya se acabó
Y es muy triste eso de verte esperando a la fulana
Con la pinta de un mateo desalquilado y tristón.
No hay que hacerle, ya estás viejo, se acabaron los programas
Y hacés gracia con tus locos berretines de gavión.
Ni te miran las muchachas y si alguna a vos te habla
Es pa' pedirte un consejo de baqueano en el amor.
Qué querés, Cipriano,
Ya no das más jugo.
Son cincuenta abriles
Que encima llevás.
Junto con el pelo
Que fugó del mate
Se te fue la pinta
Que no vuelve más.
Dejá las pebetas
Para los muchachos,
Esos platos fuertes
No son para vos.
Piantá del sereno,
Andate a la cama
Que después, mañana,
Andás con la tos.
Enfundá la mandolina, ya no estás pa′serenatas,
Te aconseja la minusa que tenés en el bulín,
Dibujándote en la boca la atrevida cruz pagana
Con la punta perfumada de su lápiz de carmín...
Han caído tus acciones en la rueda de grisetas
Y al compás del almanaque se deshoja tu ilusión,
Y ya todo te convida pa'ganar cuartel de invierno
Junto al tuego del recuerdo a la sombra de un rincón

Enfundá la Mandolina

Ease up, it's time to shelve your dreams,
Spend your time spying on her, because she's done with you,
And it's really sad to see you waiting for that woman,
Looking like a disheveled and forlorn drifter.
There's nothing you can do, you're old, your time has passed,
And you look ridiculous with your crazy, foolish fantasies.
The young ladies don't even look at you, and if one does speak to you,
It's only to ask for your advice as a seasoned veteran in love.
What do you expect, Cipriano,
You're all washed up.
You're half a century old,
And it shows.
Along with your hair,
Which has fled your scalp,
Your charm is gone,
And it's never coming back.
Leave the young girls alone,
They're for the young men,
Those heavy dishes
Aren't for you anymore.
Get out of the cold,
Go to bed,
Because if you don't, tomorrow,
You'll be coughing.
Hang up the mandolin, you're not up for serenades anymore,
That's the advice from the old woman you have in your apartment,
Drawing a bold pagan cross on your mouth
With the perfumed tip of her lipstick...
Your stock has fallen among the chorus girls,
And with each passing year, your hopes fade away,
And it's time for you to admit defeat
And spend your remaining days by the fireside, in the shadows of a corner.